


Between the Stations

by The Sign of Tea (NoPlastic)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Aromantic, Aromantic Sherlock, Multi, Other, Platonic Relationships, Polyamory, Queerplatonic Relationships, Relationship Problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 20:23:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4113736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoPlastic/pseuds/The%20Sign%20of%20Tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's easier to leave than to be left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Stations

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by Lothiriel84.

They yell at each other. Another day of restless work that left them unnerved and tired, another evening in the Watsons’ flat with another triviality to disagree over, another fight. When they’ve run out of arguments they try to outshout each other. Their voices drown out the noise of the storm outside, the thunder and the rain.

“Do you never even consider how _we_ feel?”

Mary is shaking with anger. There are lines on her face that Sherlock could swear he’s never seen before. However, the dark circles under her eyes have definitely been there for weeks.

“The baby, Sherlock. The stress. I’ve given birth five months ago. The little one keeps us up all night. John and I take turns, but still we get no sleep.”

“Sleep is overrated.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’ve gone weeks without it. Granted, I had a couple of hallucinations after a while, but –.”

“Can you even hear yourself talking?” John cuts him off. “Hallucinations. No food and no sleep. Risking our lives for your little games of cops and robbers. Is that really what you expect of us?”

He places a hand on his friend’s shoulder – still gently, but his fingers dig into the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt and the skin underneath in a more than mildly uncomfortable way.

_“You_ can do all those things, Sherlock, because you’re not responsible for anyone.”

Sherlock turns away; he doesn’t want to look into John’s eyes. He knows what’s coming.

_That’s what people do,_ Mycroft’s voice remarks maliciously in his head. Or perhaps it’s Moriarty’s voice. _They get married. Pain, heartbreak, loss… You always feel it._

“We have a child to take care of.” John speaks right into his ear in a low, warning tone that indicates he’s on the verge of losing his temper. “A helpless little baby of five months. We can’t go on cases with you anymore, not like this.”

Mary stands in the middle of the sitting room with her arms crossed and nods aggressively at every single one of her husband’s words. John’s fingers give Sherlock’s shoulder another squeeze before they finally let go.

“I can work on my blog a bit,” the army doctor offers as if it’s a reasonable compromise. “Typing it up for you, so people can read about your work without getting lectured on the characteristics of tobacco ash. That’s all I can do right now. It’s already more than you can ask of me. And Mary – you really can’t expect _her_ to do anything for you right now.”

“Mary is a trained assassin,” Sherlock reminds him, even though he knows how much John hates it when he brings this up in arguments. “She’ll get bored.”

“Bored!” Mary snorts. “I’m thankful for every minute that I can take a nap at least! I’m not bored.”

“You know, Sherlock, the difference between you and us is that we’re reasonable, responsible adults. Our marriage is strong, we live in a nice and tidy flat, and we love and support each other. The only person _you_ care about is yourself.”

“That… That’s not true, John, and you know it.” Sherlock hears himself speaking although he doesn’t know what to say anymore. The tears will come, he can feel them burning in his eyes, and he doesn’t want anyone to see him when he’s reached the point where he can’t hold them back any longer.

Outside the thunder growls. With every flash of lightning, the three of them are turned into phantoms of white light and black shadows, as if their true faces are revealed for the fraction of a second. Their daughter starts to cry in the other room. Sherlock wishes he could go there and hold her, but he knows he won’t be allowed to.

“It’s _not_ true.”

Before anything worse can happen, before words can come that will hurt even more, Sherlock pushes his way past John and yanks the door open. The storm howls angrily at him as he walks out.

He’s done this many times, especially since the baby was born, that tiny helpless human. Although he feels a bit jealous sometimes of all the attention she gets, Sherlock thinks of their daughter as his own child. The day he died and came back to life, he swore to himself that he’d do anything for this little family, a vow even more solemn and truthful than the one he made at their wedding. And isn’t he a part of the family? Doesn’t he have a right to be… _involved?_ They’ve promised each other so much, so many times. He’s even done what Mrs Hudson said and talked to John about his feelings. He explained to him that he was worried about their friendship, worried that it wouldn’t have a place in John’s married life. John laughed.

“Nonsense!” he said. “We’ll always be best friends. We’ll always go on cases. I can’t imagine living without it!”

And then he excused himself and said he would take a weekend trip to Ireland with Mary. No one asked Sherlock even once if wanted to come with them (he didn’t want to, but that was beside the point). He's their best friend, and yet they don't see him as important enough, or close enough, to be considered an equal partner. He’s given up on arguing and trying to make himself heard, so he just turns and walks away instead. Because it’s easier to leave than to be left behind.

It’s cold outside. Cars drive by, one of them a cab that almost pulls up as the driver recognizes Sherlock, and then doesn’t when he sees his expression. The Underground sign flickers a silent welcome at the corner. That’s what he needs right now – a ride home on the Tube where no one will try to talk to him, the comfort of his flat, the silence.

He’s about to walk down the stairs to the Underground station when something on the pavement catches his eye. A playing card is floating on the puddle he just stepped into, right in front of his left shoe. In the next flash of lightning he sees the card is a joker.

“Strangled with a pair of nylon tights,” he mutters because it reminds him of a case. One that took him three and a half years to solve - but the solution was easily found when they did it together. The detective, the doctor, and the assassin. On a brighter day.

Lost in thought, he gazes up at the sky, where the dark clouds are chasing each other. Rain pours down on his face, water dripping from his hair into the collar of his coat. Thunder rolls. Somewhere behind his anger and frustration, there are memories. The stars and the moon are still there, hidden behind the blackness of the thunderstorm.  
He knows he has ten minutes left before the train arrives, so he turns around quickly and jogs back to the door. His fingers dig the contents of his coat pocket for his notebook. It’s only a little wet from the rain. With a pencil, he scribbles a note, tears the page out and slips it through the letter slot. He decides not to ring the doorbell this time.

_Tomorrow at 11._  
_Tower Bridge._  
_If you’re still interested._

_SH_


End file.
